The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
by MasterYodaOfYaoi
Summary: Or at least as close as he ever gets.
1. Don't Forget the Milk

****Before we begin, this is not to be taken seriously - though I do believe it could be semi-applicable to the character's personalities. Maybe.

But please enjoy, nonetheless~

**-ooo-**

**Don't Forget the Milk**

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you weren't answering your phone," he called out, knowing the detective was still there, "I wasn't sure if you wanted skim or…" John stood outside his flat mate's room with a frown. It was rare for the man to be shut up in his room. Normally, he would be in the parlor so that the entire house could hear the sound of a violin or perhaps gunshots if the man was particularly bored – and the latter drove Ms. Hudson mad, but what he heard left one John H. Watson dumbfounded.

A sort of moaning was filtering through the door, followed by hushed whispers and then muted groans. The doctor thought about asking again, but if the man hadn't responded when he announced his entrance…

Perhaps he was in danger?

It _was_ Sherlock Holmes, after all.

"John…" The name was whispered out, almost chokingly. With wide eyes, Watson forgot his contemplation and turned the doorknob. Locked. Sherlock was definitely in danger. Putting all his weight into his shoulder, John charged at the door, forcing it open. Though he stumbled slightly, he managed to regain his footing and looked about for his friend's attackers.

Instead of someone harming the detective, Sherlock looked to his colleague with an indifferent expression, completely disregarding the most embarrassing part of this situation – that his pants had been pushed down to his ankles and his hand was currently wrapped around his erection.

"Sher…Oh…god," the doctor mumbled, his face flushed red, "Oh god, I am so...I am so sorry."

"Skim milk, please," the other man replied, again with indifference. Watson nodded dumbly, turning around to walk away and try to wipe the image from his mind. Yet, as he thanked the higher powers that he had no extensive mind palace as his friend so frequently bragged about, something struck a chord with him. So, he turned back to face the man who – yes, still – appeared unphased by the interruption. Although, his hand now had gone to his side, patiently poised as if waiting for his moment of privacy.

"Wait, when you were…did you say my name?" he questioned, about to point at the detective's groin; thankfully he caught himself before his attention was fully brought to it. The general image was bad enough, and he was all too willing to keep the erection in his periphery rather than his point of focus.

"Yes." The answer was short, but what bothered Watson was the fact that it had been said so plainly, so matter-of-factly, as if it were obvious. He opened his mouth to comment, but decided against his choice of words and closed it. This occurred thrice before Sherlock finally emitted a sigh.

"I've confused you, haven't I?" he guessed, correctly. That was hardly a surprise though, as he was the most clever and observant man in London, probably all of England, and perhaps – and extremely likely – the whole world.

"Yeah, a bit. I mean…why?" John knew he should have just left earlier on, when he had the chance. But his curiosity – both to understand this man and this situation – got the better of him.

"When one masturbates," John cringed when he said that, most likely because he said the term entirely too nonchalantly, "they prefer to imagine something they find attractive. Therefore, it is only logical that I think of you. After all, you are probably what they call 'my type.' Though to be entirely honest, I don't believe in types and all that bullocks. Preferences perhaps, but attraction is purely chemical – has next to nothing to do with appearances." This took a moment for Watson to take in and absorb. Once he did, he surprisingly only had a few questions.

"You…find me attractive?" Sherlock watched as he blinked rapidly, his head cocked slightly to his left, his lips trying not to purse themselves together. His gaze slid down to the strong shoulders, held back in a proper military stance with his arms at his side, fists clenching and unclenching in his mild anxiety, and his weight just barely shifting from one foot to the other.

"Oh yes," he admitted again, "Quite attractive." He then met the doctor's gaze, knowing full well he had more questions on his normally easy-going mind.

"Then why," he paused to clear his throat, his gaze shifted to the side. What he wanted to say was socially uncomfortable, something one didn't normally just ask. Adding that to the list of notes and observations he had on his dear friend, Mr. Holmes knew exactly what the man was about to ask.

"If you like me that way, then why didn't you tell me?" Barely a breath separated the question from the detective's answer.

"Because then you would feel obligated to dismiss your false insistence on heterosexuality and would then proceed to initiate a relationship with me that would be pleasant, at first, but approximately a week and two days after our first date – that is, going by the few times your relationships last that long – you would attempt to seduce me so that we sleep together, probably in my room as your bed has that creaky spring on the left, two springs from the top – might want to get a new mattress, while you're thinking about it."

"…what?" John's brow was crinkled in the most adorable way a man could fashion as he displayed his confusion. Sherlock had no more patience and was ready to move on, or at the very least finish himself off.

"I don't want to have sex with you, John. My sex drive is completely separate from what attracts me," he answered plainly. For some reason, that caused a short look of hurt to wash over Watson's face that was quickly replaced with one of annoyance. The doctor turned on his heel and walked out the room, not even bothering to shut the man's door.

"John? John!" Sherlock called from his room, "John, don't forget! Skim milk!" Watson said nothing, but Sherlock knew how long it took to go from his room to the door of their flat and there had been six and a half extra seconds. So the blond had paused, then continued his walk down to the supermarket where Holmes knew he would get the items he wanted in addition to a jug of skim milk. He smiled, glad he knew such a good man.

Not to mention that with all that out of the way, he could finish himself off in peace and blessed solitude.

**-ooo-**

And that's about as serious and sexual as this story gets.

Stay tuned for the next adventure~!


	2. Sexting

This story is getting both sillier and more serious at the same time, I think.  
>But enjoyable, nonetheless.<br>Right?

**-ooo-**

**Sexting**

"It was Professor Plum in the-"

"No, Sherlock, you can't-"

"John, let me finish," the man insisted, "I've figured it out. You see, it could only have been the revolver if the murder was committed in the wine cellar."

"Why the wine-"

"Otherwise the gunshot would have been heard, though anyone in the kitchen would have heard it as well. So it was obvious Mr. Green hadn't done it because he was nowhere near the-"

"Sherlock, there's no wine cellar."

"With a house this size and of this caliber? No. No, John there is most definitely a wine cellar. And the fact that they kept this from plain sight is obnoxiously suspicious…"

"You do realize that this is just a game, don't you?" Watson eyed his flat mate with a weary look. The detective didn't seem to care, until he finally met his friend's gaze.

"You told me it was 'wrong' to consider it a game when lives are at stake. That was when Moriarty was toying with me, remember?" He knew he was twisting the man's words, and that he was going to get a rise out of Watson, and that's precisely the reason he continued on.

"Sherlock, that was real. This is just a board game."

"Who's to say this isn't real John?"

"No...no, don't you start pretending you like to think deeply about some cardboard game."

"It isn't simply cardboard. It's also-"

"It doesn't…Sherlock, Professor Plum couldn't have done it." He was beginning to lose his patience with the man.

"Why not?" This seemed to perturb the detective.

"Because he was the bloody victim," John replied, obviously exasperated.

"Bloody? Hardly. And perhaps he faked his death so as to-"

"You can't…See, this is why we can't play games!" He threw his arms up, as if it were a finalizing motion. Sherlock watched him for a moment, trying to decide if he should respect that. No, he would simply shove on.

"…yes, well…let's play another round and this time-"

"No," the doctor grumbled, "No more games. You'll just have to entertain yourself for now."

"But John, I'm bored," he nearly whined as he rose to his feet. He didn't seem to mind that the game was still precariously perched on the edge of the coffee table or that several of the pieces had been sprawled across the floor – and at the moment, neither did John. The detective paced the room, likely to go off at any minute.

"Don't you still have some cases?" he finally sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. At those words, Sherlock dropped onto the sofa with a look of disgust.

"Those were boring, a waste of my time," he insisted, "So now I'm bored."

"That isn't my problem," his flat mate muttered under his breath. The other man went silent, watching his friend with a pitifully disguised expression of hurt. After the moment of quiet, which seemed to stretch on much longer than a more moment, Holmes stood up.

"John, you seem to be stressed. Why don't you let me give you a massage?" Rather than waiting for an answer, the man simply stood from the sofa and strolled over to Watson's chair.

"No, Sherlock…I'm fine, really."

"I insist, John." He put his hands on the doctor's shoulders and automatically began to massage the tightly wound muscles. Carefully, his fingers worked a sort of magic on John Watson and he began to relax – even slumping in his seat slightly.

"If you weren't such a brilliant detective, I'd tell you to start your own massage parlor or…oh, right…yes, right there." He angled his shoulder into the other man's deft hand.

"John," he murmured while leaning closer towards the man, his fingers buried against the bundle of nerves that had coiled itself through all the stress and adrenaline.

"Mm?" the doctor seemed hardly coherent as a sort of tranquility overtook him. This was his friend's goal, though, and Sherlock couldn't help but give a coy smile.

"Would you mind sending a quick text for me?" he continued with an uncharacteristically soft voice, "I would normally just borrow your phone, but with my hands held up at the moment…" The blond was already digging the cellular device out of his pocket. The detective's smile widened as his friend was poised to start a new message.

"Who's it to?" Hands became gentle and prodding, with Sherlock whispering the number into his ear. He ignored the shivers dancing down his spine and typed the digits in, hoping the fingers would return to their magic. The doctor believed he asked something about what its content would be, but Holmes knew exactly where to knead into his flat mate's back – causing a sharp intake of breath, only to be released as a low moan.

"Something sexy," he breathed, enjoying his game, especially how Watson gained a sort of blush when he said that.

"I, I'm sorry…what?"

"You heard me. Text something sexy, something you'd say to your lover," he explained, massaging slightly lower on the blond's back. Another moan, though it was accompanied by the delayed shake of John's head.

"I don't know them, Sherlock. And…I wouldn't know what to say."

"Don't you message your girlfriends?"

"I send them cute things that girls might like," he retorted, "But we've seen how bloody well that works." The detective made a shushing sound, his hands becoming more firm in their ministrations. His friend was straying from the plan, and it seemed that Holmes was going to have to influence him a little more directly.

"Then send something a little more…salacious," he urged.

"…like this?" He typed into the small keyboard and angled it for the taller man's viewing.

_Let's have sex. Soon._

"No, John. You need more. You need to titillate them with your words. Seduce them with the text." The doctor felt his cheeks heat up, but begged his body not to show such a ridiculous display. Him, blushing. And just from a massage.

"It would be helpful if I knew who I was texting," he frowned, "At least if it's a girl or a bloke."

"It's a man, John." The simplicity of that statement sent several ideas scurrying through the doctor's mind. The first and foremost, however, was that this was some sort of sex-play for Sherlock, and somewhere he was hiding a second phone and would use the text for his – for lack of a better term – enjoyment.

"How about this then?" he murmured, almost embarrassed about this next one.

_I'd have you on the table, begging for me._

"Add twice," Sherlock cooed, "The more the merrier. Isn't that how it goes? Oh, and sign my initials at the end."

"Your initials?" It surprised him; he wasn't that narcissistic, surely. Still, the doctor typed a bit more and showed it to him.

_I'd have you on the table, begging for me._

_Twice._

_SH_

"Perfect," he commented, his hands now only half-focused on the shoulders that ached from anxiety. Watson sent the message, expecting the detective to continue his massage. Instead, he wrapped his arms around John's neck and rested his head on blond locks, as if waiting.

"Sherlock, what're you…" And to John's horror, a message was received on his phone, from the number he had just texted. He had sent that to a real person, a real living person. He frantically opened the message to type a hurried but over-apologetic text back. That is, until he read the other man's reply.

_hello, pet~__  
><em>_tell mummy if he's bored, daddy could come home soon.__  
><em>_always in the mood to play a game or two of fetch.__  
><em>_xxx_

"…Sherlock," his tone was suddenly grave, "Did I just send a text to Moriarty?"

"Not just any text, John. You offered him sex through a text message. I wanted to find out to what extent he was watching us. He knows which cell phone is which, and moreso than that, he can tell which of us has texted. It's actually quite-"

"Unsettling?"

"I was going to say brilliant." John regarded his friend, who looked much too excited for his own good, with suspicion. These were both men, both geniuses, who appeared to have eyes for no one but each other. No, John reluctantly knew that wasn't true. But if their little "game" became more than that, if the tension was brought to a head, he couldn't help but selfishly wonder…

What would happen to him?

No, he didn't need to wonder. That reply answered everything. A game of fetch…

He was going to be right smack in the middle of it.

"Oh god," he groaned, "Why…why did you make me text him?"Sherlock finally stood up straight, sliding his arms up and away from the blond's chest.

"I told you, John. I'm bored." He snatched the phone from his flat mate's hand and strolled back over to the couch. While he began texting fervently once he sat down, John thought about going over to his laptop and typing up another entry in his blog. This one would simply be to ridicule Holmes about his immaturity. But then, John realized, he would have to recognize how easily he went along with it, how Sherlock put on a little sensual act and had the doctor practically at his beck and call.

Watson decided he would rather keep this secret, and hoped that the detective would keep his boredom a secret from Moriarty.

For both their sakes.

**-ooo-**

Mm, today feels groovy, my dear readers.

And just to remind you, there will be no intercourse between John and Sherlock. (Because I'm part of the wave that believes Sherlock is asexual.)


	3. House Training

**House Training**

"I think Ms. Hudson said something about a pot roast," John stated, glancing at his friend. He wasn't sure if the detective was on a case at the moment. Still, he would try to get Sherlock to eat whenever he could. As his only friend, Watson understood why he didn't want to eat; but as a doctor, he knew it was far from healthy.

"As long as she made some…actually, you go on ahead," the brunette replied half-heartedly, "I'll meet up with you later." He then strolled off down the sidewalk, hands casually stuffed in his pockets. The shorter man almost asked, but he saw Sherlock was heading towards a vagrant – one who looked suspiciously like they had a purpose for being there. With a sigh, John went inside 221B, tossing a greeting down the hall towards Ms. Hudson as he stomped up the stairs. It was going to be another night by his lonesome, if the streets of London had anything to say about it.

Yet, he was surprised to hear heavy footsteps an hour or so later coming up the stairs. He didn't bother moving from his spot. The kitchen table was covered in various chemist's toys as well as some questionable liquids. So rather than endangering himself, he had managed to clear a space on the desk by his laptop and had been eating the rather delicious pot roast.

"There isn't much left, Sherlock, but you can go get more from Ms. Hudson," he murmured without looking towards the man standing in the doorway.

"Mm, as good as that smells, pet, I've already eaten," a familiar voice replied, though it was most definitely not Sherlock's baritone intonation. John's eyes widened; he knew all too well who it was that had entered 221B.

"Moriarty?"

"Hello!" the consulting criminal sang with a playful grin.

"What're you...Why're you here?" The doctor stood up, trying not to glance over towards his gun.

"I was just in the neighborhood, thought I'd pop in," he nearly cooed, "Now sit down, John, and offer me some tea. How terribly rude not to be hospitable to your guest. Maybe Mommy should've done a better job training you..."

"Training? What're you-" He was interrupted by Moriarty's melodramatic sigh.

"I'll just make my own cup, then. Is the water still warm, pet?" The man strolled into the kitchen without waiting for an answer, automatically searching for the fixings. The blond watched him, completely stunned. Not because he had found where they lived; no, that hardly surprised him at all. But the fact that he had come at all, likely knowing Sherlock wasn't in, left him unsettled.

"Is there any milk in the fridge, pet? Or did Mommy not go shopping like he should have?" he pouted, holding a steaming cup of tea in his hands. John let out a quick breath, closed his eyes, and sat back down in his chair. This was going to be a long night.

"There was no room for milk anyway," he admitted, "Not with his latest collection of left ears." Moriarty chuckled lightly, his voice revealing that he had come closer to the doctor.

"Oh the poor little pet," he cooed, "Mommy doesn't treat you right, does he?" His hand ruffled the other man's hair, lingering for a moment. Fingers slid through his hair to his ear, trailing down the back of it, towards his neck before finally pulling away. John had bit his cheek to hold back the shiver that had wanted to surface, the urge to lean a bit closer to the hand.

Christ, he really needed to get laid.

"I'll make do with just the tea then." The criminal then plopped himself down into Sherlock's seat, just across from Watson as he took a sip of his drink.

"Oh, this is good. Does this have something citrus in it?"

"Yeah, Sherlock refuses to drink anything but that or coffee sweetened to the point of heart attack," the doctor retorted. The other man said nothing, hardly making a sound as he drank more of his tea. His silence worried John, causing him to open his eyes to assure he was even still there. When he did, however, the blond felt his heart skip a beat – out of surprise, of course. Moriarty was leaning forward slightly, watching him with eyes that seemed to be undressing him. He couldn't help but shift in his seat, throat clearing as he did so.

"Right. Okay….why're you here?"

"I told you. I was in the neighborhood-"

"Bullocks," he grumbled, "Tell me why you're really here." He watched Moriarty pout before a smirk stretched across his lips.

"Oh John, you know me too well. Mommy said he was bored, remember?"

"God…he actually told you. I can't believe…no, no of course he did. That…" John was obviously frustrated with his flat mate now, and it sent the criminal into a fit of giggles and snorts.

"Oh pet," he managed through his laughter, "You really…really are a treat." With that, he set his cup down and rose to his feet. Watson stared in befuddlement; that is, until the rather strange man sat himself down into the blond's lap. His legs dangled over one side while an arm looped around his neck. He allowed his other hand to slide up the man's chest, then towards his neck.

"Such a treat...I could just eat you up." His smile turned seductive, and before John could stop it, the man started pressing kisses along his jaw.

"I could eat every," a kiss just below his ear, "last," his cheek, "bite." The exploring lips finally found their way to John's slightly parted mouth, nearly trying to suck the breath from him. It took the doctor a moment – as well as a slight tilt of the head – before he fully realized what was occurring. Once it registered, he jerked his head back with an incredulous expression.

"What…what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded. Moriarty pursed his lips, his gaze locked onto the mouth he had just been engaged with.

"I think you know exactly what I was doing, pet. Now why don't we cut out the part where you deny me and I convince you to let it happen anyway. That way we can skip straight to the fun," he muttered before kissing the man again. Yet, before his tongue could pry itself between Watson's lips, he pulled away again.

"Honestly, you're starting to put me off a bit," he whined, "I might have to punish you for it."

"Punish me? How…no, get off me," the blond huffed.

"Don't you like it?" he asked with that playful tone of his.

"What, no. No, n- I'm not gay. How many times do I have to say this?" he insisted, more frustrated than he had been before. Moriarty shuffled about the man's lap until he was straddling him.

"Until you stop getting excited by another man," he teased, glancing down. John was sure he hadn't felt anything, yet there was an undeniable heat building in his groin. And when the more promiscuous man began to grind down on it, he could hardly suppress the sounds of approval.

"You're not doing a very good job, I can tell you that, pet."

"Shut up…just shut up." Moriarty leaned in, pecking the corner of his interest's lips; he then continued his little kisses to the man's ear.

"You'd like to shut me up, wouldn't you? Gag me with that wood down there? Don't you want me to suck you off, John? Pretend I was Sherlock even?" His words, as ridiculous as they were, sent shudders through the man's body and he seemed to react moreso until he was at least half-erect. This couldn't be happening, he decided. It had to be a bad dream, one induced by one of Sherlock's ridiculous home experiments.

"It's sweet for you to think of me in that way…but it seems a bit too icky for me," he wrinkled his nose as if a child contemplating eating spinach. The criminal suddenly climbed off of him, walking towards the door. But just when John thought he was safe, the man turned at the last moment and scampered over to stand behind him.

"Just kidding," he sang before taking a pause, "Well, not really. But I will take care of the mess I've made. Or should I say I'm going to make it messier?" He giggled at his own humor, hands moving down the doctor's body to his still stiffening cock.

"Stop…Sh-Sherlock might…"

"Mommy's on the other side of London right now, pet. Now be quiet and enjoy the closest to a shag you've had in a while," he said, his voice unusually clipped as he spoke. Watson couldn't argue, however. Thanks to his flat mate's excellent cock-blocking methods, he hadn't had sex in quite a number of months, to the point where he was growing too familiar to his computer. And with the way Moriarty was using his hands, he certainly had no reason to complain…

"Anything happen while I was out?" Sherlock queried. John fought his basic instincts to be nervous and pulled off a man casually reading a book.

"No, not really. Great pot roast, though," he responded. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and scarf, trying to read Watson. He was well-tuned enough to the man and his quirks that he could pick up on small things: he was turning the page with the hand he usually used for holding it, his toes wiggled slightly in his socks, his lips pursed just a smidgen more than usual.

Whatever it was, there was something his flat mate was keeping from him. Yet, before he could inquire any further, his phone rang. He dug it out of his coat pocket and saw it was from his true arch-nemisis. Fighting the urge to sigh, the detective opened the message and proceeded to attempt to control the emotions he had been denying all along.

_i trained your pet for you._

_thank me later._

_xxx_

**-ooo-**

I know it might be hard to believe that John would accept a handjob from Moriarty, but think about it.  
>Sherlock is the most annoying, most selfish cock-block in London, likely Great Britain, and possibly even the world.<br>You try living with that, never getting laid, and then someone comes along and offers to rub one out for you, more or less no strings attached. Would you say no?


	4. Laryngitis

Updating this for you guys in celebration of e-publishing my first novel. (If you're interested, message me. Otherwise...)

Just enjoy the fun update!

**-ooo-**

**Laryngitis**

"John." The blond continued typing up an entry on his blog, though his flat mate had been calling his name for the better part of an hour now.

"John." Again, he answered with nothing but the sound of his slow, key by key typing. Sherlock pouted slightly, an action he took up recently whenever his only friend would ignore him.

"John," he called holding out the "aw" sound in his name just long enough to reach the doctor's breaking point. Watson clenched his fists shortly before turning his attention to the taller man. His nostrils were flared, his eyes slightly narrowed, and he was clenching and unclenching his jaw. He was most certainly agitated with the detective.

"What, Sherlock?" The brunette tried to hide the fact that he was pleased that he had gotten the man's attention after all.

"John, we should go out," he suggested, "You know, dinner, something entertaining, maybe chat a bit. It would do us some good." John pursed his lips as he thought about this. What exactly he thought, Sherlock didn't know. He was a consulting detective, not a mind reader, after all.

"Sorry, I've already got plans tonight. And I still don't think you know what you're offering," he remarked before turning his attention back to his blog. Yet, despite his belief, the taller man was aware of what he was offering and had honestly been expecting a better result.

No matter though; he could fix it.

"Oh…who is she?" he questioned with feigned disinterest. John didn't even bother to look away from the monitor.

"Since when have you cared about my dates?"

"Since…always. Isn't it important for most people to find partnership?" the detective pursued. Again, John kept the majority of his focus on the computer.

"And what about you, Sherlock? Don't you want partnership or is it because you aren't most people?" Not even a breath occurred before Holmes retaliated.

"Well of course I'm not most people, John. You know that. And you should also know that I do have a partnership…with you." That made the doctor pause. He turned to look at his flat mate with a mixture of confusion and surprise across his features. The look said it all; he didn't even have to say anything for the brunette to get his question.

"Unlike you, I don't need a partnership entwined with sexual intercourse," he explained, "Any time my sex drive is lacking, I simply care for the problem and move on. It's actually quite invigorating, not to mention that it frees your schedule considerably. Just think, John, instead of…indulging in the sins of the flesh – as some say – you could be off writing a full-fledged book. Or at the very least, you could try taking touch-typing lessons."

"What is touch-typing?"

"Keyboarding, John. It pains me every time I hear your slow-moving fingers stab at each button. It wastes so much time, as does sexual intercourse, but I am completely off track. Who are you going out to meet tonight?"

"…Sherlock…it just…It isn't your business," the blond sighed.

"But it is. Come on, what's her name, John?"

"Leave it alone, Sherlock."

"Humor me."

"No, I think I'd rather not," the doctor then tried his best to focus back on his computer monitor. The detective stayed quiet for hardly a few seconds before he continued to berate the man with questions.

"Is it a girl?"

"…what?"

"Or is it a man? Because if it's a man, I'm completely comfortable with it. Except that it would likely be someone you know, someone you trust. It's not Mycroft, is it? He's been known to be a bit of a dipper," he ranted.

"A what?"

"A dipper. Someone who dips into a sexual orientation that he doesn't really belong to."

"That's not a real term," John scoffed.

"It isn't?" Sherlock wondered, "Well it should be…and if it isn't him, wouldn't it be Lestrade? He's handsome enough, I suppose."

"Sherlock, the man's trying to get back with his wife. And we played rugby together, for Christ's sake, and it was just once!" he insisted, already exasperated with the detective. The brunette didn't seem to notice, but most likely didn't care.

"Rugby can be violent. You could get caught up in the adrenaline rush, maybe smile a bit too joyfully. And when he scraped his knee, John, you went rushing to his aid."

"There was skin hanging off him. If it weren't me, somebody would've panicked and taken him to a hospital. And if I hadn't taken care of him quickly, then it would have gotten infected, what with all the mud out there," he hurriedly explained so as not to allow any way for Sherlock to twist reality, "…wait….hang on, how did you know that?"

"Then I suppose it isn't him. Well that was good. I never pictured him as homosexual; it would have been an insult to my deductive abilities and-"

"Sherlock, did you follow me?"

"Oh of course I followed you, John. It's a dangerous world out there and living with me is no help," the man sighed.

"You could say that again," the doctor huffed. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. The taller man noticed the resilient position and remained silent for a moment. It wasn't his intention to upset John, but rather to break him so he would tell. Surely just a bit more prodding would reveal who the mystery date was.

"God, it isn't Anderson, is it?"

"What? No. God, no….Her name's Lilly, alright? Lilly Stone. She's sweet, we met down at the grocery store, and I don't want you following me anymore."

"Fine. Fine, I won't follow you on your date. Besides, I was just curious…just wanted to know about her," he admitted, though it was partially a lie. Actually, the more and more he thought about it – all five seconds – it seemed to be more of a lie by omission. He hadn't told John why he needed to know about her, or any of his plan. If he had, though, it would have ruined it entirely.

"Good," John nodded, "That's…good." He checked the time quickly. Sherlock watched, biting back the amusement, as those eyebrows hiked up in surprise as they always did. Watson stood from his chair and stretched a bit, before saving his blog post for later an putting the laptop into Hibernate mode.

"I'd better start getting ready," he murmured before heading to the bathroom. He stopped though, and looked back to his friend.

"Sherlock, you…promise you won't follow me tonight?" After discovering that the detective felt so casual about – more or less – stalking his colleague, John was still a bit on edge. Though, in hindsight, he should have figured as much.

"Of course, John. I don't make promises often, but I promise I will not follow you on your date tonight." The blond seemed to eye him once more time before disappearing from view. Sherlock sat in his chair, remaining calm and disinterested until he heard the shower turn on. Just another minute of waiting, he thought. Once those sixty seconds passed however, he rushed into action. The detective grabbed his flat mate's phone and searched through the messages and calls, finding one Lilly Stone. He typed her number into his own phone and proceeded to call the woman.

"'ello?" a rather smooth, feminine voice answered.

"Hello, is this Lilly Stone?" he questioned with a hopeful tone; he needed to act the part, of course.

"Yes…who's this?"

"Oh thank goodness. I'm a friend of John's. I'm so glad I caught you. You see, he's got a terrible case of laryngitis right now and I'm afraid he won't be able to make it tonight," he explained, an apologetic tone to his voice for added effect.

"That's strange. He seemed fine when we talked this morning," she answered, her suspicion obvious. The brunette frowned; he hadn't accounted for that. Why hadn't he paid closer attention to the doctor this morning?

"Well it's developed quite quickly. We think he might need to go to the hospital if it gets any worse. I'm terribly sorry that he can't make it but-"

"Oh, I see what's going on here."

"…you do?"

"Yeah. If he wants to break it off before it's even started, then the coward should do it himself!" With that, she slammed her finger on the "end call" button. Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear, surprised at the turn of events. Still, his plan had worked and now he only had to wait. So he dropped his phone onto the desk and began tuning his violin. When John came back into the room, he was clean and pressed – ready for his date. The taller man was simply standing by the window, playing a passive tune on his instrument.

"I'm going out," he called out, "You can get Mrs. Hudson to fix you something for dinner…" Sherlock paused in his music, but didn't look back at him.

"I can't eat…in the middle of a case,' he murmured before returning to his violin. Watson watched him for a moment then went to grab his coat to go out to supposedly meet Lilly Stone. He frowned, Sherlock noted, in the oddly attractive way when his eyebrows furrowed and a line formed on his forehead. The detective was sure that would be when other people would kiss away his frown; he felt no such inclination and continued to play his odd tune.

"Sherlock, have you seen my coat?"

"Yes. You were wearing it yesterday when we came home from that strange bar-"

"Nevermind," John huffed, "It isn't too cold out."

"You might catch a cold," the brunette chastised, his violin making an ungodly sound. Watson pursed his lips as he debated whether his flat mate was serious or he was just being facetious.

"…right. Well, I think I'll be fine." With that, he turned and left the taller man to his own devices. Sherlock continued to play for a minute, then two, and then halfway through the third minute, he put the violin down. He pulled his flat mate's jacket out from behind the sofa. There were no receipts, no sign or clues of where John was planning on meeting his date. Then again, it was never the detective's intention to find such things. No, he was going to follow-

He was going to give John his jacket; that was all. The brunette was concerned over his friend's health, of course.

So he put on his scarf, coat, and shoes before hopping down the stairs – two at a time. Given his deductive abilities, it didn't take long for the man to decide where his friend had gone. Under normal circumstances, he would take a memorized shortcut to get there before the doctor. But this wasn't under normal circumstances so he chose to take a leisurely stroll, allowing John to arrive there before him and wait for his date for at least ten, fifteen minutes – just enough to get him to question whether she was late or simply not coming at all.

Which, of course, the detective was already sure of.

Sherlock arrived, two minutes later than he had intended since someone had stopped him to ask for directions – honestly, could people be any more clueless? But John was still there, checking his watch as casually as possible. Most people wouldn't notice his eyes shifting slightly downwards, just enough to read the time, before slipping back up and looking to the empty seat across from him. The brunette nearly stopped right there. He knew his flat mate would stay there for another hour, look extremely uncomfortable as he was stood up, and then come home in a huff. Trying to comfort him would be fun, and had high chances of success on his part.

No. No, he would go through with his plan. He approached the man's table, his face as casual as always. His friend's brows furrowed together, quite adorably so, as he caught sight of the taller man.

"Sherlock, what're you-"

"I found your coat. Thought you'd be needing it," he explained, "Bit chilly out." He now stood at the tableside, glancing over at the empty seat, "That Lucy woman hasn't shown up yet?"

"It's Lilly…and no, she's…"

"Good. Might as will sit since I've come all this way," he decided while he planted himself in the chair that would likely forever be waiting for Lilly Stone. He regarded the win menu for a split second, merely out of politeness, before tossing to the side of the table. A waiter rushed over, glad someone else had joined this sad-looking man.

"Can I help you sir? A drink or an appetizer?"

"Right," Sherlock answered in the same breath, "I suppose I'll have some water and a Caesar salad. Make it small; I'm not terribly hungry tonight." The waiter nodded, jotting that down before turning to the other man.

"And you, sir?"

"A glass of scotch, I think," he sighed, knowing it was going to be a long night, "And I'll have the curry with some sticky rice." The second order was taken before the two men were left to the lonesome. The detective set the menus aside where they belonged, examining a sugar packet out of boredom. He knew John had questions, and there was no point in making superfluous small-talk until they were asked and answered.

"Sherlock, why are you here?" he finally questioned.

"I found your-"

"I know what you said. But why are you really here? Is it to ruin my date again?"

"John, I-"

"What's wrong with this one, Sherlock?" he demanded, already angry.

"Nothing," he answered hurriedly, "But John-"

"Why then? Why can't I date her? Why can't I just have one girl that I can get off with right without her thinking I'm secretly your damn boyfriend?" he complained, though he did seem honestly agitated. The brunette fell silent at that. He assumed it would have been an opportune time to discuss the possibility of a relationship between the two of them. Essentially, they would do the same thing they had since the first day they met, but John would have to remain loyal to his boyfriend and, if he was lucky, Sherlock might be convinced to kiss him every now and again or even, fates forbid, cuddling with the man.

But obviously, that had been a misjudgment on his part. John was still set in his heterosexual ways, despite what he had done with Moriarty. Honestly, shouldn't it change a man? Given a good hand-job by one's arch nemesis and enjoying it would likely make any man question his sexuality at least in the slightest. And that would just be once. In the past month, he knew for a fact that Moriarty had come to visit John at least twice more after that text.

He had tried not to let it get to him, but now the doctor could be swayed to the enemy's side or worse, used against the consulting detective himself as some sort of hostage.

"Because women are a waste of time. Besides, she isn't here yet. She stood you up, John," he finally answered, rather than coming out with the truth. It was unnecessary, he supposed. At least he was protecting his only friend from the idiots of the world. Yes, if John was to have a lover, then it would have to be him – or at the very least, someone whose intelligence was matched with his own.

In that case, he would have to keep Mycroft and his unpredictable "dipping" ways away for a while, as an act of marking his…marking Moriarty's target.

"And how would you know that? Sherlock, did you follow her? Did you..." He frowned again, and suddenly coughed into the back of his hand, "Did you do…" He coughed again, this time a little more painfully than the first. It led into a few more until he was having a coughing fit.

"Drink the water, John. It seems the night chill might have gotten to you, after all," Sherlock proscribed, though the doctor had already come to the same conclusion and was sipping from his flat mate's glass. That night, though he had been toying with the observation, the detective came to a definitive deduction:

John Watson may have been a grown man who was capable of making his own decisions, but he was still too naïve to understood the consequences of all his actions.


	5. Caring for the Sick

**Caring for the Sick**

"Sherlock, I don't want that."

"But John, the website said it was good for you."

"I don't care what the bloody website said. I'm an actual doctor and I'm telling you it won't help and I don't want it."

"John-"

"Who do you trust more, Sherlock. A website or your flat mate?" There was a moment of pause as the detective gave him another one of those soul-searching stares – though he would never admit that, as he refused to believe that anyone had a soul in the first place.

"We're both biased, John. I care entirely too much for you, you know this. And you would make yourself appear strong when weak, as that is your defense mechanism, how you cope, how you help others cope. Therefore the only option was to consult a third, unrelated party and what better way to do that than through a website I found online. Now, Doctor Watson, eat your soup." John looked at him, point blank, and their eyes met. And, like any other time this happened, they simply stared at each other before the blond gave in. He took the soup from his friend who was currently doubling as a nurse, apparently – though he was still dressed in his pajamas as there was no need to go out if he was caring for his sickly friend.

"Go on," he urged. The doctor gave a silent thanks that his colleague was at least wearing clothes as opposed to the bed sheet he had been tugging around the last few times he woke up with free time – but at least he had used the sheet. Once, he hadn't even bothered with that and John had seen more than enough of Sherlock for one lifetime. And now he'd seen him enough for two; what luck.

"It's," he sipped a small spoonful, "It's good. Actually, there's a flavor I can't make out." He took another sip, though this one was bigger.

"Is it…tomatoes?" John shook his head, swallowing his mouthful and continuing on downing the surprisingly ambrosial liquid. Honestly, it was a miracle Sherlock could make anything edible without burning the house down.

"Rosemary or some spice?" Another shake of the head, and another few gulps of that soup.

"Is it cinnamon? The recipe had me add a little bit for spice."

"No," John murmured as he used his spoon to gather up the remaining puddle of soup.

"Ah, then it must have been the vodka." The doctor's eyes widened at that and, slowly but surely, he turned to stare at his flat mate. He had just finished most of the bowl, and yet he waited to tell his "poor friend" that it was laced with alcohol.

"I'm actually quite impressed you've lasted this long. The website said the amount of vodka would either send you into a drunken stupor or you would simply pass out, yet you remain fully cognizant. Good for you, John. Your liver is stronger than the average London man around your age."

"What? Sherlock, how could you-" the words were knocked from his mind as he rose to his feet, "Oh…god…" He swayed in place, the vodka now flowing through his system in a violent and unrelenting wave. After keeping himself still for a moment, he tried to take a step. Sherlock just barely managed to reach the falling doctor before he hit the ground. Instead, the blond crashed into his flat mate's chest.

"Come on, John." The brunette tried to guide him back to the couch, but in the commotion, he was pulled onto it as well. As he tried to push his friend off, John simply began to laugh – which was admittedly a rather cute thing, mixed with snorts and a rippling sort of chuckle.

"Sherlock, I never expected…never expected you'd go and get me drunk."

"That was supposedly a cure, John, but it obviously…"

"Liar," the laugher suddenly died out, "You just wanted to get me drunk. You're a right smart man, Sherlock, and I know you're smart enough to not fall for that and thinking…thinking that I would believe you makes you a toff. A complete-" Lips pressed against his suddenly, firm at first but then relaxing against him. It remained that way for a moment, with neither man touching the other save for their connected mouths, before Watson tilted his head and worked his lips to deepen their kiss.

Despite the rather nasty flavor of his friend's mouth, Sherlock resisted the urge to pull away and instead ttried to work with John to perfect the kiss. A hand eventually reached up to lightly grip his pale neck; he fought his instincts to flinch away in an attempt to lengthen their connection. Not receiving any resistance, the doctor moved closer and closer until he was pressed against Sherlock. His body automatically began to rock against the taller man's resulting in a mutual moan.

"Let me," John murmured, sucking on the man's lower lip.

"No," he said, "No tongue." This seemed to hardly matter to the blond, as he was now grinding fervently. His forming erection was causing the detective to panic; he hadn't meant for it to go so far, and what was he supposed to do when they were both hard and aching? There was no way he would allow John inside of him, and certainly no way he would take that much advantage of his colleague.

Then again…

He _was_ Sherlock Holmes.

"John," he whispered, hesitantly attempting to grind back, "You want me."

"Yes," the man breathed in return, his hands now moving to unbutton the man's shirt. No, in his inebriated state, buttons were far too advanced a task.

"Not here. Let's go to your room." Though his own room was much closer, he'd be damned if they had sex on his silk sheets. At that point, he couldn't tell what would spill out of John – and he certainly didn't want to find out on his own bed. The blond wasn't about to argue with him, so with much effort he stumbled to his feet. Sherlock followed, keeping the man upright as they made their way towards the stairs. Once they reached the first step, however, it was apparent the doctor had no intention of climbing them.

"Here?" he whispered, still remembering they had to stay quiet in the hall. The detective shook his head, urging him further on up the stairs.

"Hurry up, John, or I'll leave you behind." That seemed to motivate the man, as he stormed up to his room. They could hear Mrs. Hudson complaining about the weight of his footsteps, but the brunette would not allow his friend nor himself to listen.

"Here," Watson murmured, leaning on the door for support. He smiled at the taller man, the corners of his mouth crinkling ever so slightly. It was admittedly hard to resist, but neither of them had to do so. Sherlock moved closer to him until they were sharing each other's breath. It bothered him, that thought, but he pushed it to a corner of a room in his mind palace, focusing instead on alcohol and its effects.

"John?"

"Mm?" he looked up at him, leaning a bit closer.

"You understand I'm going to have sex with you, correct?"

"Even though you don't want to," John murmured, his hands patting his soon to be lover's chest. His words made the sociopath pause and, after a moment, his hands slowly slid to cover the blond's own.

"As we get closer to Moriarty, it isn't safe for you to be with him. I know what you've been doing, John, and I don't care…but we can't play this game any longer. I can't have you gallivanting with my arch nemesis," he explained, his eyes searching the shorter man's for some sort of understanding.

"Huh…that…doesn't sound like a love confession…or anything, really. Are you…you really don't want this, do you?" The brunette looked away, knowing he would not dare lie to him but also knowing that the truth would ruin everything.

"Sherlock?"

"It would inhibit my work, John," he snapped, his gaze returning to the doctor. Yet, as if to apologize for his words, he dipped his head down to kiss him. He had expected the man to melt against him once again. Instead, he was pushed away by a very suddenly grumpy John H. Watson. He would not force himself upon the man – that would defeat the purpose of this whole ordeal – but it did strike him odd that now he was being denied.

"You're a dick," John slurred, "And I don't want any of it. At least…least he pretends he cares…and, in fact, he likes to be with me. Doesn't go rubbing one out with my picture, doesn't ruin my dates, doesn't verbally abuse my girlfriends, doesn't send Chinese mercer…mercen…

"Mercenaries," Sherlock supplied quietly, his eyes now trained on the floor.

"That! He treats me…well, not great, but damn well better than you do," he finished.

"…you like him more than me?" the detective guessed, his gaze slowly rising to meet John's. The blond fidgeted while he slid his hand onto the doorknob.

"I don't...I dunno." With that, he opened his door and started inside. He had intended to shut the door in Sherlock's face, crawl into his bed, and fall asleep for what he hoped to be days. His plans were dashed though, when he saw the state his room was in. Lit candles decorated his dresser, his desk, any sturdy surface that could be found. Flower petals had been tossed across the top of the bed and on a corner of that romantically decorated bed was Moriarty. He was fully dressed in one of his Westwood suits, legs crossed, and his usual amused smirk across his lips.

"John dear, my little pet, I heard you were sick. Thought I could help you sweat it…oh, hello mummy," his attention automatically shifted to the consulting detective and his analyzing expression.

"…this must have taken at least an hour," he finally spoke, choosing to watch John rather than his enemy.

"Two, actually. But I had Sebastian do it for me, so it was no trouble, really. Do you like it, pet?" he asked. John peeked at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, seeing that the brunette was focusing only on him. In any other case, his hand would be fidgeting and his nerves would be shot to hell. But he was more or less drunk, so he went over to Moriarty and sat down next to him.

"It's…nice. Very nice." He looked to Moriarty, who was suddenly teeming with giggles.

"Oh my," he cooed, "It seems mummy let you into the liquor cabinet…" He clapped his hands together as he said this and then his hand came to rest on the doctor's thigh, fingers already teasing the inside of his leg. Sherlock grimaced slightly when his flat mate moved closer to the man.

"Do you mind giving us the room, or would you rather watch?"

"Mo-"

"I'll stay, thanks." With that, the detective walked over briskly and sat down on the blond's other side. John tried to move, but Moriarty's grip on his leg kept him down. He knew now that he wasn't going anywhere, and something strange – and likely regrettable – was about to happen. His mind though, could only process one thought:

Bark.

**-ooo-**

This is probably out of character, but it was just too fun. I'm sorry, I loved this one way too much.

And kudos if you got the end reference to an earlier chapter.

(Just to clarify, because some people might confuse this for Sherlock changing. He isn't. He still would rather not touch John, but found it was his only option if he wanted him to focus on their work objectively rather than finding it a decision between his best friend and his lover.  
>Hope everybody gets that~)<p> 


	6. Double Homicide

**Double Homicide**

John woke groggily, his vision blurred by lingering sleep. He could make out the shapes and colors of his room, but what surprised him was the feeling of someone else in the bed. Arms were wrapped around his waist, and he could feel that person's slow breath on his back.

"Who-" His own voice stabbed needles into his brain, resulting in a groan of pain. That noise served as a worse torture though it managed to wake his unknown bedmate.

"Good morning, pet," the stranger's voice cooed. At the familiar sound, bits and pieces of the night flooded his mind. He remembered standing up after Sherlock told him the soup had vodka, remembered Moriarty's hand on his thigh, remembered being on all fours as someone took him…

Other than that, it was a blur of lips and caresses.

"Moriarty…what happened?" he murmured in hopes that the quiet tone would be kind on his hangover – and for the most part, it was. The man – his lover now, he supposed – came closer and pressed a kiss against John's lips, only to pull away with a coy smile.

"Something wonderful, John dear. We had sex," he cooed.

"Yeah…yeah, I figured that out," the doctor muttered, "But what happened other than that? Where's Sherlock, for starters?"

"Him? Oh, he's probably in his room. He left after a while, seemed upset. Why? Do you want to go comfort mummy?" As he began to fully waken, Moriarty sought out his pet's leg, letting his fingers trail up the bare skin until they came to his hip. John was too lost in processing the words to notice the hand had gripped his hips and pulled him closer. He did notice, however, a paradigm of morning wood pressing against his backside.

"Pet, why don't we go for round…hm, I don't think I can remember…maybe five? No, it was four. I remember because you cried out his name the loudest that time." He seemed to be talking to himself more than John, which unsettled the man because it implied he had no choice on whether or not they would have sex again.

"I don't…wait, his name?"

"Oh yes," he whispered as he came close to his lover's ear, "You had a terrible habit of calling out Sherlock instead of mine name. It got a little awkward, I must say, but once he left the room, I managed to get you calling me daddy."

"No…no, no, no…I mean, come on…no." John had said this while he struggled out of bed. Moriarty eventually, grudgingly, let him go and smiled when he sounded a groan of pain.

"Sorry pet, I might have been a little rough with you at times," he apologized, though there was no regret in his tone whatsoever. It took only a moment for the blond to shake it off, and then he limped towards his dresser.

"He heard me then?"

"John, I think the whole street could hear you," he retorted, "The walls are not as thick as you'd think, after all." The doctor would have blushed profusely had he not been himself; but he was, and his expression went unchanged as he pulled clothes from his drawers. Under normal circumstances, there would be a slight shame at being seen naked, but these were far from normal circumstances. Two of the most prominent people in his life – one by choice – had seen him naked and fucked. There was likely no such thing as shame anymore.

"Right, well I think you'd beat be off," he spoke once he was dressed. He turned around to see Moriarty was carefully putting his Westwood suit back on, slowly zipping the zipper, smoothing the lapels; however, John noticed something was off and he stretched his left hand before clenching it, a sign that something was bothering him.

"Your tie." He brought the mistake to attention. The consulting criminal glanced down and made a sound of anguish. The skinnier end of his tie was much farther down than the other end.

"My bad," he pouted, "I was never good at this…" The admission surprised John, but it was quickly replaced with a sort of exasperation as the other man tried to correct his error.

"Don't…come here," he beckoned, though he was already moving towards him. Moriarty dropped his hands to his sides while the blond set about doing his tie the proper way. His face was scrunched in the most adorable way as he focused on his task, and it simply made the mastermind want to kiss him. So, he did. Their lips met briefly, almost sweetly – though John would swear it was impossible for Moriarty to be sweet – as each man seemed to respond to the other.

As far as the blond could remember, he had shared few kisses, if any, with this man. But he oddly tasted like honey and the familiarity of his mouth seemed to assure John that last night they had fully explored each other. His hands still held fast to the tie, though they were no longer doing what they'd intended to. When the criminal moved to grasp the back of his lover's neck, however, John pulled back.

"Why?"

"You looked kissable, pet. Why else?" he teased, sliding his hand around to massage the back of his neck nonetheless.

"No…why did you pick me?" he persisted. He locked eyes with the man, causing his playful smirk to falter. His hand slipped away and he took a few steps back. His pet was beginning to figure things out and, if James Moriarty knew him at all, it would be near impossible to coerce him into this any longer.

And Moriarty knew him all too well.

"Because…Sherlock thinks you're his."

"I'm not-"

"Of course not. And I'm sure you would say you aren't mine either. Your opinion is irrelevant, John dear. What matters is who takes more of your time, who you think of more often. I want to show him I can take anything I want and he can't stop me. You're what he cherishes most, so it made sense-"

"You're wrong," the doctor interrupted, "It's his mind. His big fat intellect that matters to him." Moriarty, with an untied tie, strolled to the door to his lover's room.

"Oh, I don't think so," he sang, "You should go check on mummy and see how he's holding up. I'll see you one time or another, I'm sure. Goodbye, love." He disappeared down the stairs, going further and further down until he skipped out the front door. Sebastian, his personal bodyguard and marksman, had pulled up the car and drove off with his boss comfortably settled into the seat.

John, meanwhile, collected himself and went down to the main floor of the flat. He found Sherlock in his usual seat with his fingers texting on his phone sporadically. He seemed fine enough; that is, until he looked up at his flat mate. The look that crossed his face was something the blond had never seen, but he felt responsible for it.

"Morning John," the detective murmured as he returned his focus to the small screen of his cell phone.

"Morning," the man returned while he headed towards the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea, "Did you sleep well?"

"I didn't sleep. And from what I heard of it, neither did you." He was hardly surprised that the snarky comment slipped from his mind – as most always did, except John was normally there to fix the situation. Now though, he had likely offended his friend, his only friend. But that hardly bothered him as much as …

No, he would erase it from his memory. It was unimportant and unnecessary, therefore he would forget about the night's events. Regardless of this resolve, it was all but impossible to stop thinking of the way John had looked – unabashedly calling his name out, despite being taken by another man, his lust and alcohol-coated eyes only watching Sherlock…

It hurt the detective as much as it had excited him. And that, in itself, scared the sociopath more than he could logically believe was possible. John was unaware of this inner turmoil, of course, as he strolled back in with his drink. He did however manage to catch sight of his flat mate's expression. He was certainly bothered by something and it hardly took a moment's thought on what the subject revolved around.

"So…how much of it-"

"All of it," Sherlock interjected, anticipating this question as well as the question after it, "I did not participate, John."

"But you were the one who got me drunk," the doctor added. Blue eyes glanced at him, showing a hint of fear. Although he insisted on only needing himself, he was at a point where he doubted if he could survive efficiently without John Watson.

"Yes, well-"

"Were you planning on shagging me?" he demanded before sipping from his coffee mug.

"No, but I saw it as an opportunity to-"

"Opportunity?"

"Trial," the detective amended. The blond took a few more sips from his bitter beverage while he contemplated on how he should react to this. Sherlock had sexual feelings for him, but would never act on them. It simply wasn't in his nature. Yet, he had come so close to it. He had been in the same room while the other two had made love, had made out with John on the couch…The question wasn't whether he was willing to cross the line, but whether his flat mate could accept that he would ever want to.

"...but you seemed to be an adequate lover," Sherlock added, hoping it would appease the doctor rather than agitate him further.

"Just adequate?"

"Good," he edited, "You were good."  
>"Of course. A damn good shag," he murmured before finishing up his cup of coffee. This brought a small, short-lived smile to the detective's face. He then went off about some cases he may or may not take and how Lestrade had been bothering him about some double homicide…<p>

John sat down in his chair, listening to his friend with a lukewarm smile and his now empty cup. He could worry about his own feelings later; for now, it was nice to be with Sherlock Holmes as he was.

**-ooo-**

Only one more chapter now~  
>I hope you've all enjoyed this as much as I have! <p>


	7. As Close As It Gets

Well you guys; this is it. The last chapter.

This was supposed to be funny...and about Sherlock.

But then it got serious, and focused around John.

Let's just say Sherlock is a Johnsexual and leave it at that.

Hope you enjoy this last chapter~! (I know I did.)

**-ooo-**

**As Close As It Gets**

received at 14:30 -

_pet, let's meet for some playtime._

_xxx_

received at 11:29 -

_answer my call, john dear._

received at 20:11 -

_i have a collar with your name on it, pet._

_xxx_

received at 23:03 -

_he won't play with you. he can't. pet, let me give you what you need._

_x_

received at 3:12 -

_mummy doesn't love you like I do, john dear. i'll show you._

Sherlock closed the inbox of the phone. The texts had been sent randomly throughout the past week and a half, but the doctor had never replied to a single one. The brunette knew what this meant, but found himself wondering when his flat mate would admit it or admit anything, for that matter.

Since the encounter between the three of them, John hadn't spoken a word of Moriarty or his relationship with the man. And despite his "massive intellect," Sherlock Holmes had no idea how to address this issue – had no idea if it even was an issue.

"Welcome home, John," he called, uncharacteristically. This whole ordeal with Moriarty had really put him out of sync with himself. And that in itself pissed him off almost as much as Anderson attempt to sound intelligent. His blond companion trudged up the stairs, several bags from the store in his hands.

"You didn't find your cigarettes again, did you?"

"You still keep them around here?" he murmured with feigned surprise. He knew where they were, had already found them. But John had been clever, for once. The pack was hidden in the doctor's sock drawer, beneath his underwear. It was a place he thought the man would never look, but his sociopath of a friend had found himself checking the drawer on an almost daily basis when John was with Moriarty, because by seeing which pair the good doctor was wearing, he could tell if he planned to see the criminal that day.

"Not anymore I won't," he sighed, striding past him and into the kitchen. Per usual, there was nowhere to set the bags except the floor. And, of course, when the fridge was opened there was hardly any room around the body parts and a bag of…

"Sherlock, is this marijuana?" He snatched it up and stormed out to the detective, his anger already blooming.

"It's for an experiment."

"What sort of bloody experiment? You're not switching one addiction for another. As your doctor-"

"Yes well you're not my doctor, therefore your input is only a suggestion. I will do with my cannabis as I wish," he answered, knowing full well he was aggravating his flat mate. But John simply stood there, bag of weed in hand, his face sorting through its emotions until it found the right one. Exasperation.

"Tell me…tell me you're not doing drugs, Sherlock. I can deal with the smoking, the violin at two in the morning, the constant texts, even the dead body parts…but tell me that you're not a pothead."

"I'm not a pothead."

"…are you lying?"

"John how dare you-"

"Are you…lying to me?" the doctor repeated, stressing each word. He was acting remarkably upset, Sherlock noted. Perhaps this wasn't John's first run in with drugs?

"I am not lying to you, John," he said as he stood from his chair and over towards the man, "I would never lie to you." His voice was low, emphasizing the deep baritone of it. The blond seemed slightly uncomfortable with the proximity as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his grip on the bag tightening.

"Then throw this out."

"John, it's for a case. I can't just-" He saw that his friend's expression was unwavering, and realized there was no way to win unless he removed the evidence. The detective supposed he could solve the case well enough without it.

"Fine," he sighed before he took the marijuana from his friend. He knew he was being watched as he walked over and dropped it into the kitchen's wastebasket, knew that if he suddenly turned around, an aching expression would appear on the doctor's face and he simply wouldn't know what to do or how to fix it. So instead of addressing it, he turned just enough to walk out the kitchen without meeting John's eyes.

"I'm going to my mind-palace. Don't bother me," he said, as if that was just as good as an explanation as any other. For him, it was because the blond stayed away from his room for the rest of the evening. After all, he needed his own time to think. He knew Sherlock wasn't that stupid. Then again, that fake drugs bust when he had just moved in…

Surely there were secrets Sherlock Holmes hid from him, but John was just as sure that his flat mate wasn't a drug user. So why had he reacted so vehemently to the marijuana? Why would he care anyway?

Sherlock kept severed body parts and questionable chemicals around the kitchen. He used nicotine patches at an alarming, and dangerous, rate. He shot at the walls, stole John's phone, kept him single, had an insane brother with a knack for kidnapping, had no respect for privacy, couldn't be decent to save his life, and…

And…

And John loved all of it. Every single flaw and annoying trait were so endearing in their odd ways that his love for them was stifling. Not them. Him. The things he would do for his flat mate was above and beyond that of a normal relationship. He should have realized this earlier, he admitted. Within the first few days of knowing him, he had willingly chased him around London and had even killed a man for him. And he would do it again, if he needed it. Which, knowing Sherlock Holmes, was a likely possibility.

If he were totally honest with himself, John was probably in love with his insane flat mate and there was really only one thing he could do in his mind. Simply saying it was difficult, would be considered a sign of weakness in the detective's eyes. It needed to be something unspoken, something that didn't involve contact, something where John didn't have to meet the intimidating gaze of those analyzing eyes…

He knew what to do, and went towards the brunette's door.

Sherlock was in his room, still miffed slightly that John simply hadn't come out with his feelings yet. But then, when he expected John either to be tapping once again at a torturously slow pace on his blog or going upstairs for an early bed, he heard a knock at his door. Groggily, no longer caring that he was misreading what the blond's actions would be, he got up to answer it. Yet, as soon as his hand began to turn the knob...

"No," John murmured, "Just...keep it shut, Sherlock. Please." The detective was confused, which was a sickening feeling, but listened as the blond leaned against the door, even slid down it. Without a proper explanation, Sherlock did the same, silently so. No words were said and with the door separating them, the detective had next to nothing to work with. He had no idea what the blond was intending.

Until, suddenly, he heard a trembling moan slip from under the door.

"John?" he calls, eyes trained on the door. He knew what he was hearing, but couldn't believe it.

"Sherlock," the doctor breathed as his hand moved in a steady tempo along his shaft. Sherlock listened to him, finding the small corner of pleasure in his mind palace. His own groin was aching to be touched, having stirred to life as soon as that wanton moan came from John's side of the door. The brunette carefully shoved his sweatpants down his legs, to his knees. His erection – nearly filled now – was yearning for attention, for the feel of a familiar palm against the sensitive flesh. He obeyed diligently, not bothering to question why John was doing whatever it was this could be considered.

Yes, even Sherlock and his massive intellect couldn't quite put a name to this…surprisingly sexual encounter he was having with his colleague. Still, his slender fingers wrapped themselves around his shaft and began to stroke, slow and thoughtful at first. As he listened to John and his increase in moans, muffled noises of appreciation, and whispered names, he quickened his pace to match what he could only deduce as a similar speed to John's own masturbating hand.

The taller man closed his eyes, accessing the image of John he always chose. The man was sitting there, by the television – though it was off – and he was slumped slightly with his legs spread enough to fit a certain detective in between his thighs should he want it, a nice change from the rigid soldier stance. In his hands was a book, not terribly small or big – but oh it was old. Sherlock could practically smell the paper from where he was, and it only beckoned him closer.

"John…" The image in his head paid him no heed, but continued reading. And when he turned a page, the blond brought an index finger to his lips and licked its tip a little faster than the other man would have liked, but then when he used his saliva to aide him in turning to the next page in his book, Sherlock found it to make up for that hurried movement. The image shifted in his seat a bit, nearly chewing on his lower lip out of a long-forgotten habit. When he realized what he was doing, he flicked his tongue across his lips to reprimand himself and went back to the reading.

Then, the doctor's eyes shifted from side to side, as if he was searching for someone. There was no one there though, and with what appeared to be relief across his features, he set the book aside. Breathing his name, Sherlock's eyes locked onto the constricted bulge in his flat mate's trousers. The John he imagined released his erection, hissing out a curse. His hand wrapped around his shaft and he began pumping; so it was a quickie, the detective realized, before anyone could enter the flat and interrupt.

"Just like that, John," he murmured. All the while he imagined this, he had been steadily stroking himself off until pre-cum was drooling down the side of his cock.

"Sh-Sherlock," the blond panted through the door. He was closer than his flat mate, despite having gone without the taller man's deep, admittedly sensual voice whispering and moaning to him. Just knowing he was there, though, touching himself because of John…

Something warm washed over the doctor and it seemed to be a prelude to his whelming orgasm. His eyes squeezed shut as he milked his release, uncaring of the puddle of cum gathering on the floor, uncaring that his breath hitched slightly – a sound Sherlock had never dreamed of but once he heard it, he was pushed over by the end. Thinking of all the ways he could get John to sound like that again flooded his mind and overflowed to trickle down his palm, pooling on the floor.

Whatever this was, whatever they had just done, it more than likely ruined the floors. Mrs. Hudson was going to get in a tizzy or worse, she would ask how it happened. John would fight a smile – just another one of their experiments, surely – until he would realize his mate had looked to him in a silent explanation. Blush would break out onto his neck, the tips of his ears if Sherlock was lucky.

That could be days from this moment, however, and the two men still had now to deal with. The detective mulled over what he knew about "normal" people, and their after-mating rituals. They would sleep in the same bed, the more amorous ones, and would cuddle or spoon or whatever they were calling it these days. Though he liked to think John was closer to his level of intellect than the average Londoner – something he would probably never tell his friend – he was sure the shorter man preferred at least some of their customs.

"...John?" Sherlock murmured, his forehead pressed to the wood. The good doctor made a grunt of a reply, obviously coming down from his high slower than the brunette. His flat mate sat up, lifting the waistband of his pants back up to settle snugly on his hips.

"You should come in," he said, "I can stand some...cuddling, if you require that affection." For a silent moment, he found himself scared - a horrifying revelation in its own right - that his friend left to his own room. Instead, a laugh carried through the wood in a soft, spent sort of way.

"Why not?" he replied though his voice sounded higher up, as if he was standing. And this time, he turned the door handle and was about to swing the door open. Rather than standing up, Sherlock pushed himself aside so as not to block the door. John looked down at him with an amused smile. He should have expected as much. The detective looked no different than usual.  
>And yet he did. Something in him looked different, something the doctor couldn't quite place. But, a few minutes later, as he was tucked up against the one and only Sherlock Holmes, he didn't seem to care.<p>

He did, however, manage to dig his phone from his pocket. He almost set it on the nightstand beside the bed, but something told him to check his messages. There were a few from his sister, one from Mike asking to meet up, and nearly two dozen unreplied messages from Moriarty.

John stifled a yawn before opening a text to reply to the criminal and admit what he should have done a while ago:

_Sorry. I'm choosing him, after all._

And he switched his phone off for the night, set it on the table, and fell asleep in the arms a selfish, narcissistic, impossible, childish, high-functioning sociopath.

He slept wonderfully.


End file.
